


What We Didn't see

by petnurser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petnurser/pseuds/petnurser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will be AU after series four, sometime in the distant future..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The knock on the door was soft but to the two inside the room it was as loud as a gong. “Sherlock, it is time to leave.” Even through the door they could hear the sadness in Mycroft Holmes’ voice..

  
Tears flowed freely down Molly Holmes’ face. She knew she would probably never see her beloved husband again. From bride to widow in less than twenty-four hours.

  
The pain in his eyes was evident as he wiped her tears with his thumb. “Molly, I loved you more than I ever thought possible.” He didn’t bother to wipe his own tears away allowing them to stain his black shirt as he dressed. Molly, his wife, watched him silently. Her reddened eyes and flowing tears speaking for her. They said their goodbyes here. They didn’t want a public scene and he didn’t want to risk that Molly could become a target. The door opened and Sherlock slipped out without looking back. The door closed with a quiet click. He was gone and she was alone.

  
Molly Holmes looked around the room. A plain, private room in a maximum security prison wasn’t the ideal place to spend a wedding night but it was all she had and all that had been possible. She knew why Sherlock was there and why he had to go. He had killed a man; a man who posed no direct threat to him or anyone else. Sherlock shot an unarmed man at close range. She listened to him tell his story with disbelief. Sherlock was a good man, not a murderer. But kill a man he did, a powerful man. This was two days ago. Yesterday he asked her, through his brother, to visit him in prison. Sherlock explained what had happened, what was to happen, and that it could not be stopped. Molly remembered his words as he asked her to marry him.

  
“My time is now considerably shortened. I must pay for what I’ve done. I am a selfish, cruel man with little regard for sentimentality. This aside, I cannot leave without telling you this; I love you, Molly Hooper.” He breathed in deeply in an effort to keep control over his swirling emotions. “I am being sent to Europe tomorrow, likely to die. I have been denying this for too long, a fact for which I am beyond sorry, my love. I am asking you to marry me tonight, Molly, we can have at least tonight for each other. Mycroft has made all the arrangements.”

  
Molly nodded numbly as Sherlock brought out the paperwork. This was not what she was expecting when the black car pulled up beside her as walked home from the tube station after work. Being with Sherlock was something she had fantasized about for years but not like this. She knew him. She knew that he could be a bastard to everyone but could be particularly cruel to those he cared about. Before her was not a bastard but a scared, lonely man. Without hesitation, she signed the prepared paperwork and Molly Hooper became Molly Holmes. She didn’t stop to think about why the paperwork was ready and witness signatures (Mycroft Holmes and Athena Sherringford) were already there.

  
Sherlock and Molly spent one night together, loving each other. It was all bitter-sweet and, if Molly were honest with herself, surreal. She was now Molly Holmes, wife of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. Her husband was being sent to an espionage mission in Eastern Europe and would not return alive.

  
Molly tried not to think of all this as she dressed and stripped the bed. She needed something to do and removing the sheets from her marital bed was something. When he walked out the door he didn’t look back. Molly caught a glimpse of his weary eyes however and they were red and glistening from the tears that had already fallen and those he was holding back. That alone started her tears to fall. Sitting on the edge of the bed she gathered her emotions and waited for her escort. She decided to not dwell on the pain, the loss. She would remember the good times. She would remember the day of cases they went out on together, of working side-by-side in the morgue, and, of course, last night. It had seemed that the world was gone, there were only them, Sherlock and Molly. There would be no one to take him away in the morning, no one to take her home to mourn. But morning came and Mycroft did come.

  
Molly wanted to pound her fists against her brother-in-law’s chest, to yell and scream at him, to slap his smug face and ask him how he could send his baby brother to die. She knew it wouldn’t do any good. Sherlock’s choice was to die in prison or die working for England. He chose England.

  
She thought about all this as she sat on the bare mattress where, only a few short hours ago, they both had finally and for the last time expressed their love.

  
Another soft knock broke through her thoughts. The door opened and Molly heard, “Mrs. Holmes, come with me.” Mycroft’s PA, Anthea said. The same black car and driver from last night were waiting for her. “Address?”  
Molly thought for a moment. She felt that she couldn’t go home and if she couldn’t be with him, she would go where she felt close to him. “Two-two-one B, Baker Street, please.”  
Mrs. Hudson let Molly into her husband’s flat. Molly thanked her but the older woman was too upset to speak and quickly excused herself to go back to her own flat.

  
Molly Holmes walked around the flat at Baker Street touching Sherlock’s things. She straightened a stack of files and reverently ran a finger down the body of his beloved violin. It would never be played again. When she got to the bathroom, Molly found his aftershave. Its woodsy scent hit her and the tears began again.

  
In the bedroom, the bed was unmade. Sherlock’s dressing gown, sleep pants and old, soft tee-shirt were thrown carelessly on the bed. Molly gathered his clothes, lay on his pillow and drank in her husband’s scent. Blessed sleep took over and there was darkness and peace.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

  
She woke sometime later hearing Sherlock’s voice, “Mycroft, that was risky.”

  
“What was, little brother?” Mycroft’s tone was a warning not to speak of the incident that ended Sherlock’s exile and death mission four minutes after it started. “You have a criminal mastermind to find. I will also have annulment papers drawn up.”

  
Molly’s heart sank to her feet. She didn’t want an annulment, she was Sherlock’s wife. Her sleepy fog was lifting. SHERLOCK! He’s home! As Molly swung her legs off the bed and stood up she heard Sherlock’s voice again, “No.”

  
“You always were given to sentimentality, brother. One night does not a marriage make. Doctor Hooper…”

  
“Holmes.”  
“Fine, Doctor Holmes is not your equal. She will never hold your attention for long.”

  
Sherlock was bristling with anger. Surely he was grateful to his brother but to be so dismissive on Molly was inexcusable. “Mycroft,” He said with barely contained anger, “ I do appreciate all you have done for me and Molly but I will kindly ask you not to insult my bride under our roof. Now, if we could have some privacy…”

  
“Of course, brother mine. Please remember that the offer remains open.” With that, Mycroft Holmes, otherwise known as the British government, closed the door with a soft click and left the rooms at Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

                Sherlock sat on the sofa and allowed the anger in him to continue to build. How DARE his brother insult his wife! Sitting was not enough; he got up and started walking around the flat, storming really. Not his equal? She was worth at least ten of him. Hold his interest? She did that by just being! Sherlock had been a fool to ignore his feelings for so long. He know he would be a really bad husband, at least at first, although he seemed to be brilliant at least one aspect of married life if Molly’s reactions were any evidence. This was one mystery he was determined to solve: How to Make His Wife Happy. He sat again and settled into his mind palace.

                Wife. So much better than “girlfriend”, more intimate than “partner”. He never expected to be in a relationship, never mind marriage. He only dated rarely and then only for a case. By the time they got to know him, how much of an arse he really was, the case was usually over and they went their separate ways. There was no woman that he had ever met that would attach themselves to such a difficult man anyway. His adult “love” life was one of drug fueled sex and straight out denial of sexual desires. He tried but never succeeded fully denying what he felt, and wanted, with Molly.

                He had been in love with Molly for some time. Sherlock wasn’t able to pinpoint when he fell in love but he knew it was before his “fall” off St. Bart’s roof. As he thought his life was coming to its end, it became important to express it. Asking her to visit him in prison and to marry him on the spur of the moment was a calculated gamble that he had won. He now had the one that he loved and an heir. Sherlock felt the sofa sink down next to him as Molly, his wife, sat beside him. She slipped her fingers into his tentatively as she asked him, “Sherlock, are you all right?”

                Suddenly his eyes brightened. He turned to face her and said, “Yes.” He then stood up and strode over to the desk. Due to Molly’s actions earlier he was quickly able to find the notepad and pen kept there. As he sat back down next to his beloved he said, “I’m fine, you?” as he wrote _I suspect the flat is bugged._

                Molly replied, “Good. Me, too.” She wrote _Who?_ The notes went back and forth while making small talk about how they would spend their day.

_I’m not sure._

_Is it safe here?_

_I think so, for now. Depends on whom._

Suddenly, Molly’s stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten since last night’s supper and it was now early afternoon. She said, “Food?” She was hoping he had something, she hadn’t looked.

“I’ll have to call Mrs. Hudson, I haven’t got anything in. I wasn’t expecting my wife.” he said with a self-satisfied smile. “MRS. HUDSON!”

Molly looked at him and giggled. “She’s not our housekeeper, love.”

“Say that again?”

“She’s not our housekeeper.”

“No, the last part.”

“Love?”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Me, too”

He bent towards his wife intent on kissing her breathless but instead heard, “Ahem!” as Mrs. Martha Hudson cleared her throat. Her eyes held nothing but amusement, however.

“Do you want something?” She said.

“Food.” Sherlock replied.

“Anything in particular?” She said as Sherlock wrote _Bugs in flat. Not safe for Molly and me to go out right now._

“Oh, dear. I’ll just fix something.” Mrs. Hudson went back to her flat to fix them something to eat and, hopefully, some tea.

A short time later, Mrs. Hudson walked into a breathless couple as a blush washed over Molly. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve seen worse.” She said. Mrs. Hudson set the tray down that was laden with sandwiches and tea.

“No doubt,” Sherlock commented. “OK, you have questions.” His stare boring into the older woman.

“I always thought you and John… But then he got married and… You’re not gay.” She stammered. Molly was content to silently watch the interaction between her husband and her, now, she supposed, landlady.

“Obviously.”

“When did this happen?”

Sherlock carefully began to tell the tale of murder, exile, love, and marriage. He was careful and spoke only of the things that could be found through public records if not now, soon. When Molly took over, telling her side of the tale he sent a text to his dear brother: _My, our, flat is bugged. Yours? Clear them. I want some privacy. Newlywed, you know. SH_. He was tempted to make a smiley face from the keystrokes but he needed his brother and it wouldn’t do to antagonize him too much.

It was only a few minutes later that a reply was received: _Not the government, we monitor from outside. I will send a crew over as soon as possible. MH_

_Good. Make sure they are not annoying. SH_

As Mycroft’s men removed the listening devices from 221B Baker Street Molly sat on the sofa just thinking how she wanted all these agents to leave. Mycroft and Sherlock spoke in the kitchen. “How many?” Sherlock said.

“At least three. The living room, kitchen and bedroom. We are trying to ascertain if there are any more and where they are. None of them standard issue for the government. You have an enemy, Sherlock.” Mycroft replied.

“Right now I have many. Sixteen come to mind with three being the most likely.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“Not right now.”

One of Mycroft’s agents came up to them and stated, “Sirs, we found four devices. They have been neutralized.”

“You missed one, brother.” Sherlock said to Mycroft. “Where were they?”

“Kitchen, living room, bedroom and the upstairs bedroom.”

Mycroft told the man, “It is time to leave. Take the devices back to the office. The lab can analyze them and see if their signature matches any on file. Sherlock.” He turned to leave.

Sherlock stopped him, “Thank you, Molly’s safety is paramount to me now.”

A snide look from Mycroft was part of the reply, “You really do love her. I’m sorry. Mummy will be happy, though. The offer of the annulment still stands.” He trailed the rest of the agents out of the flat and closed the door behind him. Sherlock and Molly were blessedly alone again.

Sherlock locked the door; at least they could hear someone coming in now. He sat down on the sofa next to his wife and began to tenderly kiss his way down her neck. She shivered at his ministrations. “Oh, Molly, you have awakened something in me that frightens me.”

Molly was overwhelmed. He was never afraid. He continued, “This, you, calms my mind better than any drug, any meditation that I have ever done. If I had only understood sooner. I am so sorry, Molly, and I intend on trying to atone for my actions, or lack thereof, for the rest of our lives together.”

Molly simply said, “There is nothing to atone for, nothing to forgive. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“And I love you, too, Doctor Holmes. Would you like to take this somewhere more comfortable?” His pupils were blown, his breathing more rapid and, if she had checked, his pulse had increased.

“Bedroom?” Molly replied, a little out of breath herself.

He smiled, picked up his bride and together they composed their own waltz.


	3. Chapter 3

                Sherlock woke to a quiet city. The bedside clock read 4:31 AM. A sated and sleeping Molly Holmes wrapped in his arms. He left his bed for a short time, cursing the biological needs that made him do so then returned. Molly was still deep in sleep but she must have sensed his return and curled into his side. He gently pushed his arm under her shoulder, held her and entered his mind palace.

                There were people that were anxious to take Sherlock Holmes down. He had made a career out of solving the nearly impossible and bringing those that did wrong to justice. The living came from the private clients that wanted to know things that affected their lives. The money they paid him allowed him to pay his taxes and have pocket money to spare. Most of that went for cab fares, lab equipment and food. Rent, clothing and other expenses were drawn from a trust that was set up for him as a child. All told, the Holmes family was quite well off and financially stable. Molly, as his legal wife, was now his heir. Perhaps there would be a little Holmes in the future to have that title. The thought surprised and pleased him at the same time.

                His mind then turned to the task at hand. Enemies? He had more than a few. James Moriarty and Charles Magnusson were dead; one by Sherlock’s hand and the other by his own. One name kept coming to the forefront; Sebastian Moran. An associate of Moriarty’s he would be a serious contender for the top position as Sherlock’s arch enemy, if they existed. After all, Sherlock did take down Moriarty’s network. His associate and, if rumors were correct, lover, would be seeking revenge. Still Sherlock couldn’t discount an entirely new player he didn’t know yet.

                A look at the clock told him it was 5:30 AM. By the time he got out of bed (gently), showered, and dressed it was almost 6:15. He kissed his wife on the cheek, donned his coat, scarf, and gloves and left the flat. He nodded to Mycroft’s guards and his homeless associates that were watching the flat. Molly would be well protected while he was gone.

                It was nearly impossible to catch a cab at this early hour on a Sunday morning so Sherlock took the tube to Molly’s flat. Picking the lock to gain entrance, he looked around. Toby, Molly’s cat, wove around the tall man’s legs. He’d been alone for two days and was hungry. A few open cupboards and a dumping of stale water (replaced with fresh) and the animal was fed and watered. A soon-to-be resident at Baker Street, he presumed.

                He located Molly’s overnight bag in the bedroom closet and began to fill it with clothing. Frilly undergarments, outerwear, socks and shoes found their way into the bag. He would accompany her later to gather more clothing and bring Toby home but at least for now she would have clean clothes.

                Sherlock’s next stop was the local Tesco. There he picked up all the things he needed for a fry-up: eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, tomatoes. Coffee and tea went into the basket along with bread and other foods for lunch. By lunch time he could arrange for a more comprehensive grocery delivery.

                Bag laden, he went home managing to hail a cab this time and on the way he texted John to invite him and Mary to breakfast. John’s reply was short, “???”. Sherlock replied back, “Please come”.

                Sherlock was cooking when John and Mary arrived. The look on John’s face was incredulous and he said, “You know how to cook?” Sherlock had not cooked one meal in the time they lived together.

                ”Not extensively but I can cook some basic foods, John, “ Sherlock replied.

                “What’s the occasion?” Mary inquired as she lumbered over to the table. At eight months along all movements were slow.

                “Help yourself to coffee. Tea will be a few more minutes. I wanted to introduce you to someone.” Sherlock said.

                “Someone else is here In Baker Street?” John questioned. “Who?”

                “My wife,” the detective said very matter-of –factly.

                John sprayed his coffee throughout the kitchen, “WIFE?”

                “Wife,” was all Sherlock would say.

                “Who and when?” Mary inquired incredulously.

                “Two days ago, the night before my exile. That was our wedding night.”

                “Whoa,” John interjected. “You’re telling us that you married someone as you were going to die and now they are here?”

                “Yes, John. So far we are quite happy.”

                Just at that moment, Molly came out of the bedroom. Her hair disheveled and wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown, she looked angelic to her husband. ”John, Mary! I didn’t know you’d be here,“ she said. “Good morning.” Kissing Sherlock she wished him a good morning as well but with far more intimate tones than she greeted John and Mary with.

                “I invited them for breakfast, Molly,” the new husband said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

                “I’m happy you did, Sherlock. Does anyone mind if I take a shower?”

                They all expressed no objections, Sherlock told her were the towels were and then, “I went to your flat this morning. I fed Toby and there are some clean clothes in your overnight bag near the sofa.” One last chaste kiss and Molly Holmes went off to shower. Sherlock turned back to their friends and stated, “You have some questions.”

                “Yeah. Yeah, I do. How could you do this to her?” John stated, irritation evident.

                “Do what? Marry her? I love Molly, John.”

                “She is a nice, normal woman…”

                “She cuts up cadavers for a living…”

                “A nice, normal woman, Sherlock. What’s going to happen when you get into one of your moods or retreat into your mind palace if things get difficult? How many cruel, callus statements until she’s had enough? Marriage isn’t always a lark.” John looked over to his wife pleadingly, “Sorry, Mary, but no marriage is.”

                Mary replied with slight amusement, “I know that, John. There’s all kinds of things like the toilet seat, toothpaste tube, loo roll and washing up to work out.”

                “Not to mention international assassinations.” Sherlock chimed in. The conversation continued. They discussed the ins and outs of relationships. They discussed the importance of communication and consideration for each other. Mary and, eventually John, really got the impression that Sherlock really cared for the woman he married.

                As the conversation slowed down Sherlock reiterated his position, “I was facing near certain death. I had two days to reassess everything. I finally understood that Mycroft was wrong and sentiment isn’t always a bad thing. I realized what I had been denying for too long; I am in love with Molly Hooper-Holmes, or however she wants to be called. I know I’ll be a horrible husband at least at first, possibly forever. I am rude, arrogant and I speak before considering others. I am going to try, though. She is one of the few truly good things in my life and I don’t think I could withstand losing her.” It was right then that Molly walked out of the bathroom, just in time to hear the last part of Sherlock’s declaration to his friends. She knew he cared but, until then, didn’t understand the depth of love he held for her.

                They talked as they ate, making plans for New Year’s Eve. Sherlock trying to argue that it was just another night, everyone else arguing that it wasn’t . Mary bringing up the fact that a little get-together could serve as a small, private reception. Through it all, the entity that planted the listening devices in the flat was never far from Sherlock’s mind.

                Once breakfast was eaten, Molly volunteered to do the cleaning up. John gave Sherlock a look that said, “Enjoy it while you can, mate.” The men retreated to the living room with their coffee and discussed Moriarty (Mycroft, obviously) and the bugs found in the flat.

                Mary wasted no time. She started to clear the table and Molly tried to stop her. Mary told her, “I’m pregnant, not ill,” and promptly gathered the dishes. As the men discussed the buggings and what to do about them, the women talked as well.

                “OK, spill, Sir Shag-a-lot?” Mary said.

                “What? Oh, the papers. I won’t deny that he is… um… quite skilled.” A blush flushed her cheeks, “But seven times a night? I don’t think anyone has that much stamina.”

                Mary smiled and hugged her newest friend and told her, “Just keep him in check, OK?”

                “I’ll try but you know him. I love him to pieces but I’m scared. What if I’m not the wife he needs? What if I mess up one too many times? ” Molly was really nervous.

                “You just be Molly, OK? He truly loves you. Just trust each other, OK?”

                The rest of the cleaning up was finished quickly with light conversation and laughter. Soon enough, they joined their men in the living room, a fresh pot of tea in hand.

                “And you don’t have any idea who planted them?” John asked.

                “I’m pretty sure. I’m just waiting for Mycroft to get the technical specifications on the bugs for me when it is complete. I do know that it wasn’t him or his lackeys. Too clumsy, too amateurish. “Sherlock replied.

                “Moriarty?”

                “Dead. Suicide.”

                “Then, who sent the message over the telly?” Mary asked.

                Sherlock smiled wryly.” Someone who would have been heartbroken if I had died. Someone who offered to draw up an annulment. I refused, of course.”

                Molly smiled remembering his refusal. His brother meant well, she supposed. She just wanted to be here, with Sherlock. In her heart, this marriage was right and it would be difficult to tear them apart. Molly knew this was fast. She wasn’t as naïve as many thought.

                “You really do love her.” John stated.

                “Yes, I do, Isn’t that what I’ve been saying all morning?” Sherlock said, glancing at Molly who was sitting with Mary on the sofa. “And I’m going to do everything in my power to make her happy.”

                Just then a text message came over Sherlock’s phone: _You have 24 hours. Tell Mummy and Dad or I will. MH_

               

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

                The late morning was busy for the pair. John and Mary left to attend their last ante-natal class. Mrs. Hudson brought up some tea and a light lunch and Molly cleaned up with Mrs. Hudson while Sherlock analyzed the data he had on who was out for him and how to draw him, or her, out.

Sherlock knew he had to tell his parents about getting married; he also knew that Mycroft would follow through with his texted threat. Mycroft really was a rubbish big brother. He knew that his mum would want to plan a fancy reception with lots of people and pomp. He was happy to just have Molly by his side, a party or formal ceremony wouldn’t change that. Mummy would also start on about grandchildren. Sherlock liked the idea of children with Molly’s beauty and his intelligence, or the other way around. It didn’t matter, he realized. Suddenly he was a romantic sap and loved it. The real question was how to tell Mum and Dad.

                There was the most direct and fastest way but he felt that a phone call would be tedious. A visit? Time consuming and he just didn’t want to go face-to-face with his parents right now. Sherlock supposed he loved them but he felt a bit put off. He was, after all an adult fully in charge of his life and didn’t like all the meddling. Another way was a simple announcement in the newspaper. Mummy still read the Times so it would reach her without the fuss of a call or a visit. There was also the added benefit of perhaps drawing out his enemies.

                Molly was, understandably, a little apprehensive of this plan. She would have preferred to meet her in-laws face to face but agreed to Sherlock’s idea after looking into his pleading eyes. They drew up the announcement together:

_Miss Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, daughter of the late Robert Hooper and Elizabeth Smith Hooper, and Mister William Sherlock Scott Holmes, son of Mister and Mistress Sigur Holmes announce their marriage in London, twenty-seventh December two-thousand thirteen._

                The Times was contacted and the announcement was paid for using Mycroft’s credit card. Sherlock had nicked it sometime ago and Mycroft never said anything. He never used it frivolously, only when he wanted to make a point. Let the chips now fall where they may.

                They also arranged for a grocery delivery for the afternoon. Molly was much better at the domestic side of life than he was so she made the list and sent the order in. They would have food in soon. When the delivery arrived, they both put it away and, and when it was time for supper, Molly fixed a light supper of baked fish and jacketed potatoes. Sherlock did the washing up and Molly got a chance to do some reading.

                Sherlock found that being with Molly did calm his mind. She didn’t distract him but helped him focus. It was like she cleaned the cobwebs from and rearranged his mind palace so data was more easily accessible. Sherlock didn’t even object when she asked him to eat. At this rate he would need to replace his wardrobe due to weight gain. That evening, before bed, he started a fire in the fireplace and invited his wife to curl up on the sofa with him. He stroked her hair as they watch the flames dance. Thoughts turned to the future. He saw a tiny child in Molly’s arms being doted on by its grandparents. A few years later, the same child with dark, curly hair and warm chocolate eyes building with blocks at their feet, another infant in his arms.

                His reverie was broken by Molly’s voice, “A penny for your thoughts.”

                “Molly, do you want children?” He started. “I wasn’t expecting to live so the question was moot. I once would have never asked that question of anyone. But, you… you are so, so, all-consuming. In a good way. I’ll never be a great husband; I’d probably be a horrible father. But, I don’t know, I can see myself procreating with you.”

                Molly giggled at the term “procreate”. It was just so Sherlockian. Her answer made his heart leap. “Someday. I just want to enjoy us for a little while. We didn’t have a normal courtship and I just want some time with you. I know we can’t wait for long but we can let nature take its course. It will take a while for the contraceptive hormones to work out of my system anyway. How about this. I finish my prescription of pills and then let it happen when it does. I have two months left.”

                Sherlock smiled, “That would be wonderful.”

                Morning found them still wrapped in each other’s arms on the sofa.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

                At ten AM the ringtone on Sherlock’s phone cut through the fog of sleep as efficiently as Molly’s scalpel did on flesh. He carefully untangled himself from his wife and answered, “Sherlock Holmes.”

                “Will, why didn’t you call? When can we meet her? Does this mean that we will finally get some grandchildren? Mycroft is a lost cause, we all know that.” Violet Holmes began. “I need to plan a reception. No child of mine will have something this monumental go unrecognized!”

                Sherlock knew his mother and knew that it would be very difficult to stop her incessant and inane questioning. “Mummy, Molly and I just wanted to avoid all the fuss. We didn’t get married under the best of circumstances. No, I don’t think we want a reception but we are having a gathering tomorrow night at the flat, you and Dad can come.” Sherlock know that they wouldn’t come to London on New Year’s Eve. “We haven’t decided on children, yet.” That wasn’t quite true; it was just a number they hadn’t decided on.

By the end of the conversation, Sherlock knew he was beaten. He agreed to a birthday dinner at his parent’s cottage on Sunday the fifth of January. A sleepy Molly watched him with a bemused expression. “Your mother?”

“Yes. Doctor Violet Holmes, mathematics. Almost living proof that they will give a PhD to anyone. “

“Sherlock! You can’t mean that!”

“Wait until you meet her. My father is worse, I assure you.”

“They had two exceptionally bright children…”

“Three. My oldest brother Sherrinford. I don’t know much about him. No one talks about him much. About all I know is that he died when I was an infant.”

Molly’s thoughts turned to Doctor Holmes, how awful that must have been, losing a son while raising two others. “What happened?”

“I don’t really know. I’ve just been told that he was working covertly and his work couldn’t be spoken of. I just followed along and never got too curious as to what did happen. Maybe because it upset Mummy and Dad too much? I don’t know.” Sherlock really didn’t know why he wasn’t curious about the older brother that was rumored to be better at “the work” than he was or than Mycroft could ever hope to be. Someday, he might just explore that mystery. Now, he had better ideas.

“Molly, did you want to go out? A nice walk, lunch? A proper date?” Sherlock asked of his wife.

“That sounds great, Sherlock. Let me get ready. Maybe we can stop by my flat and look in on Toby?” Her husband nodded his answer as she went into the bathroom. She emerged fully dressed and ready to go. Even in jeans and a bulky sweater, she took his breath away.

They gained a tail when leaving 221B. Mycroft’s guard followed a respectable distance away as the couple walked the city. As they walked along, they engaged in light conversation. A few strangers congratulated them in passing on their marriage. Molly politely thanked them, Sherlock ignored them. They ate lunch in a small café near Molly’s flat, a flat she would soon be giving up. Toby was fine and they both decided that it would be best to move him after the New Year’s Eve get-together. Too much upheaval at a time would not be good for him.

Molly didn’t notice that their guard wasn’t there when they left her flat. Granted, it was just over an hour as they insisted on behaving like newlyweds there, but he still should have been there. Sherlock’s sharp eyes and keen observations lead to discovering him lying in an alley. Dead. A quick examination of the body yielded no clues as to why he died. Mycroft was informed and a team of agents quickly stormed the area. The body would be autopsied and Sherlock and Molly were asked not to get involved. Of course, Sherlock was scheming to do precisely that. They then heard a faint popping sound. Molly gasped and fell. A red stain seeping through her sweater as she lost consciousness.

 

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.


	5. Chapter 5

                Six days, three surgeries, numerous drugs, blood transfusions and seemingly endless hours of unconsciousness were what Molly endured although she didn’t know it. Extreme worry and bottomless exhaustion were all Sherlock knew at the moment. John and Mary came and went. Mary brought him food. Sandwiches, soup, endless coffee and tea and nothing tasted of anything to Sherlock. John made sure he made it home to shower and sleep for a few hours every day. He also kept Sherlock’s calendar clear.

                At one point, Sherlock’s parents came to visit. They wanted to meet their son’s wife in a much better setting under better circumstances. They made their son eat something while nurses took care of Molly but what little he ate sat like a rock. They left behind a beautiful arrangement of flowers for Molly. They reminded Sherlock too much of a funeral arrangement so he gave them to the nurses.

                The most frightening day was the fourth day after Molly got shot. She spiked a fever and they needed to open her again. This was her third and final surgery. Now it was the long road of recovery. The medically induced coma let her body rest while medications worked to reduce infections. Sherlock had never suffered wounds this serious. Her fate was still unknown but he was determined to see it through.

                The fifth day, Mycroft visited. He brought his brother tea and scones. He saw what sentiment had done to his brother. The pale face, the dark circles, the redness in his icy eyes, all due to sentiment. He couldn’t resist saying something. “Sentiment, Sherlock. This is where it has gotten you.” He barely finished speaking when a fist met with his nose. Mycroft left with his handkerchief over his bleeding, broken nose without saying another word.

Throughout it all Sherlock was oblivious to the armed guards stationed outside his wife’s hospital room. The assassin’s bullet had torn right through her abdomen. It cost her a lot of blood and three feet of intestine but she would hopefully be fine in time.

Molly’s drug cocktail was slowly reduced over days six and seven and on day seven, Sherlock’s thirty-eighth birthday, at 4:38 in the afternoon she opened her eyes. John and Mary had just gotten to the hospital to make sure Sherlock ate some dinner. Sherlock refused to go. He had seen some signs of wakefulness and he was going to be there when she awakened. She was groggy, eyes unfocused but she was awake. She reached up to touch her husband’s cheek and he knew that she would be all right.

 

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Sherlock’s parents came to visit at Baker Street the day after she came home. She got to meet her father and mother-in-law and found them to be kind, pleasant people. Toby had been moved in while she was in the hospital by John and Mary. It did her a lot of good to have her cat to cuddle. Sherlock seemed to distance himself after she came home. In hospital he was attentive and loving; at home he was cold and distant. Finally Molly had enough and asked him what was going on. His answer was a sharpish, “I’m trying to settle this case. Leave me alone.” Molly silently kissed his cheek, a tear in her eye, and went to bed. Her movements slow due to discomfort. What he couldn’t tell her was that he was terrified. He came within a hairsbreadth of losing her. He was working that out. His need to protect her coupled with the knowledge that he couldn’t protect her from it all angered him and, temporarily, he directed it inappropriately. He would feel remorse later and apologize. Now, he set forth trying to solve the mystery of who was after him, why they attacked his wife and what to do about it.

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Molly woke up alone. She gingerly walked out to the living room to find Sherlock sleeping on the sofa, one arm across his belly, the other hanging off onto the floor. He looked peaceful when he slept, like all his worries were gone. She gently put a throw blanket over him and went to take care of herself. Washing herself and getting dressed went slowly but she didn’t want to wake up her husband for help as he had gotten so little sleep in the past few weeks. A comfortable pair of track pants and a loose sweatshirt and she was good to go. She made a pot of coffee and some toast, took her required medications (antibiotics and much needed pain medication) and sat in his chair to read.

Sherlock woke up and found her fast asleep about an hour later. He carried her to bed and got her settled, kissed her forehead and gathered his clothes for the day. After showering and dressing, he dumped the coffee as he preferred tea in the morning and it was cold anyway and made a pot of tea. He spread the dry toast with a little honey and settled into breakfast.

There was a soft knock on the door and Mycroft came in. His face was swollen and bruised but otherwise he seemed to be OK, pity. Sherlock looked at his brother and waited for him to speak first. He pointed to the tea tray and waited for Mycroft to pour a cup before sitting down. Mycroft began, “I would like to apologize for my words a few days ago. I may not agree with it, but I hope you and Molly are happy. I withdraw my offer of an annulment.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. We are happy, for the most part. We just had our first row and I need to resolve it by apologizing. I think you’ll find Sebastian Moran’s second, Marcus Wheeler, is our gunman. He tends to shoot into a crowd with that type of precision.”

“I will have him _interrogated_ then.” Mycroft said with just a touch of menace in his voice. “How did you figure it out?”

“Shoes or lack thereof. Where the sniper stood, based on the ballistics, anyway, there were only footprints. Unfortunately they were of poor quality and virtually useless. Only one sniper that I know of hunts barefoot regardless of the weather; Wheeler. Before you say it, yes, my sentiment made me take longer to figure it all out. It would have been faster than normal if Molly hadn’t have been the prey. You should try love sometime, Mycroft. Being with Molly has calmed my mind, made data more retrievable. She is better for me than any drug I have ever taken, Mycroft. Just as addicting but life affirming, not destroying. I am sorry I hit you, but you angered me by implying I was less than I used to be before. I am more and with Molly at my side, I feel like I can be so much better than before. In just a short time everything is better.”

“Hormones, Sherlock. Hormones and endorphins.”

“I know the chemistry, Mycroft. Serotonin, dopamine and oxytocin. The ‘feel-goods’ a professor once called them. Just don’t be so dismissive of them. When they flood the brain it is amazing. I’ve only gotten that rush with Molly.” Sherlock finished.

They sat in companionable silence, the first in many years. Mycroft finished his tea, begged his leave and asked Sherlock to give his regards to his wife.

“Mummy sends her regards and asked me to give you this for your bride.” Mycroft took a small velvet box from his pocket and gave it to his brother. He smiled, congratulated Sherlock again and left.

When Sherlock looked in the box, it was as he expected. Their grandmother’s rings waiting to be placed on another Holmes bride’s hand.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter. I am sorry it took so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some graphic depiction of violence.

                Sherlock lay on the bed, above the covers, lost in his mind palace. He knew he needed to draw out Moran. Wheeler, his second, was already in custody. He wasn’t talking but having tried to assassinate the sister-in-law of the British government Sherlock knew it wouldn’t be long. The question was how does one call out one of the most dangerous criminal minds that, since Moriarty’s death, had nothing to lose?

                Two short months ago, Sherlock Holmes left 221B Baker Street to spend Christmas with his family. Christmas night he killed Magnussen with one clean shot to the head. There were witnesses that no court could impeach. In an instant, one split second decision would completely destroy all that he had worked for, all he had done for years. Mycroft had done what he could. Mycroft kept him out of prison and, with the help of some clever software hackers, the Moriarty threat was revived. There still had to be some fallout from the murder he had committed, though, didn’t there? He was worried about the new consequences that could crop up.

                Sherlock Holmes had killed Magnussen with one shot. The bullet tore through his skull, just to the center of his left orbital. The projectile then exited, ripping through his brainstem, killing the blackmailer instantly. Magnussen’s blood and brain matter spattered across the marble-tiled deck of Appledore.

                It seemed wrong, somehow, that after he had committed such a horrific act something so good would come of it. Just a relative short time ago, Sherlock Holmes had committed murder, this morning; he was watching his wife, his Molly, sleep. They had been friends for a long time, a few years anyway. Sherlock knew she always wanted more. Now he was happy to give it.

When they were younger, Mycroft had gotten to him with his diatribe against sentiment and caring. Sherlock thought for a long time that his older brother was right, that caring wasn’t an advantage. Facing his death he realized how wrong that was. He still struggled daily with trying to not be, as Molly put it, snarky or behaving like she was an idiot. Granted, a great many people were, but Molly certainly wasn’t. Any changes in his attitude and general demeanor were on Molly. The pieces clicked into place and he finally realized his true fear.

Once she awoke, he gently caressed her cheek. “Molly, I’m frightened.”

“Of what?” She replied.

“Losing you.”

Her eyes seemed to fill with unshed tears, “Oh, Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that. There are a lot of people who would see me dead. People who have the means, people who have the desire and drive to do so. There are many ways to kill a man, Molly. Moran came close, but Wheeler made a few mistakes. I don’t know what I would have done if you had…” He couldn’t finish that sentence. The idea of Molly’s death was just that frightening to him. He didn’t know when he started feeling this way. It was probably long before he admitted it. It scared him, but he would be damned if he suppressed his feelings for Molly ever again.

Molly silenced her husband with a kiss witch rapidly became heated. He pulled away, worrying about hurting her. He wanted her more than it was rational but not to the point of hurting her. Molly cradled his cheek almost instantly knowing what was wrong.

“Love, I’m OK. I’m going back to work tomorrow.”

“Part time, light duty.” He countered. Mostly paperwork, no post mortems for a while. Too bad, he wanted a brain to experiment on.

“True but I hardly think that making love will do me any harm if we take it slowly. It’s been so long, Sherlock and I have been cleared, you know.”

“I do miss you.” He said, his voice getting husky in the tone saved only for her.

They made love slowly and gently without rush. It had been over six weeks since they last had. They needed the intimacy, they needed the affirmation of life that only this brought. He now understood why love was such a vicious motivator. This was an addiction. A flashed image appeared in his mind palace; Molly with a swollen belly then of a young child with a perfect blend of both their features. He buried his vision as he peaked, salting it away for analysis later.

His wife followed, sighing softly as she came down. They whispered I love you’s and shared gentle caresses. All the while, Sherlock begged forgiveness for his thoughtlessness in hurting her the night before.

“I forgive you, Sherlock. Now forgive yourself.” was all she needed to say.

The pair drifted into an easy sleep until awakened a short time later by Mrs. Hudson bringing up a tea tray. She saw the closed bedroom door, left the tray and retreated back downstairs with a knowing smile.

They enjoyed a cup of Mrs. Hudson’s tea and then showered together. Sherlock mapping the new scars on Molly’s body.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short, sorry for the wait.

Molly Hooper-Holmes’ first day back at the morgue after being shot was quite eventful. There were three post-mortems done and about a ream of paperwork to be done. True to the definition of “light duty” Dr. Hooper-Holmes didn’t perform the exams, but she was called in to look at a diseased heart. It showed clear signs of valve disease and the patient’s history included drug use. The death was ruled to be natural and she went back to her paperwork.

                Around 1:00 a cup of tea, Earl Grey with a lemon wedge on the side, appeared at her elbow. She looked up with a smile. “Sherlock. Thanks, darling. What have you been up to?”

                “I went to see George at New Scotland Yard. There’s nothing for me to work on right now. It is a good thing you don’t bore me or we’d really be in trouble. I just walked around the city for a while then came here to see my wife.” He held her left hand gently running his thumb over the rings that sat on her third finger. He had given them to her the day before, no ceremony, no romance. Just a, “Here, they were my Gran’s.”

                Molly looked at him incredulously but slid them on her finger. They were slightly big but not enough to resize. It was easy to guess, from the rings, where Sherlock got his taste from. His simple yet exquisite taste in clothes was mirrored in his grandmother’s rings. The wedding band was a simple, plain band of white gold. The engagement ring was the same white gold with a simple setting of lapis lazuli in the center with rose quartz on either size. Sherlock explained to his wife that the lapis represented intelligence and the rose quartz for love, both very fitting for her.

His grandparents met during WWII and were immediately enraptured with each other, as the story goes. She was a secretary at Bletchley Park and he was an intelligence officer for the army assigned to carry dispatches to and from command. After the war they married and had Sigur Holmes, Sherlock’s father. Margaret Holmes, in time, became a PhD in chemistry which was unusual for a woman at the time. She taught chemistry at King’s Collage and assisted in the peer review of Watson and Crick’s paper on the structure of DNA. James Holmes joined MI5 after the war and much of his work was still classified.

Sherlock remembered them as being very much in love with each other even after over fifty years of marriage. They had retired to Sussex and bought the cottage where Sherlock and Mycroft’s parents lived now. His fond memories as a child always made him remember the good times he had visiting there growing up. The good times ended at the age of nine when his grandmother passed away suddenly. The Holmes family, his parents and their two remaining sons, moved in with Grandfather Holmes. It was during that time that Sherlock learned from him how to ask the right questions.

He still remembered the call. He was at school, a small boarding school about fifteen miles from home. His grandfather had died suddenly when out working on his bee hives. Sherlock was devastated but with exams pending he couldn’t come home. A few months later, his dog, Redbeard died. It was a difficult time for young Sherlock and he began to see the advantage of his brother’s mantra about caring being a disadvantage. Shutting down his emotions and developing his already strong intellect helped him through this period. Never one for friends, his transformation largely went unnoticed.

Years later, the walls he had erected slowly began to crumble brick by brick when he met his pathologist at St. Bart’s. Molly Hooper was pretty and kind to him even when she shouldn’t have been. In time, he started to see that maybe being alone wasn’t an advantage, Mycroft be damned.

Of course, he ignored what he felt. He couldn’t admit, even to himself, that he was falling in love with Margaret Elizabeth Hooper. The work was all that mattered, intellect above emotion. It protected him so far, it would continue to protect him. Until it didn’t. The two days he spent in solitary confinement after murdering Magnussen forced him to decide what was really meaningful to him and that was Molly.

At 2:00 Molly logged off the computer and gathered her things. She looked at her husband lost in his mind palace and chuckled, for someone so noticing of detail when he was at ease he could be so un-noticing. “Sherlock, I’m done. Would you like to go home?”

“No.” he replied, his face unreadable.

“I’m sorry?” Molly said not understanding. “You want to stay here?”

“Nope. I want to take my wife out for a meal, then I want to take her home and make sure she rests.”

“Oh. Can we get some tea on the way home? I saw we were almost out.”

“OK. Food, tea, rest. Any requests on the food?”

“You pick.”

They ended up at a little fish and chip place and ate large portions of fish and chips. Molly didn’t like to eat that way too often; she saw firsthand what some foods did to the human body. A huge yawn broke their morgue centered conversation. “You’re worn out. I’ll get a cab.” Sherlock said to his wife.

They rode back to Baker Street in silence and she felt the fatigue grow as she climbed the stairs. Although it was still early, he helped her to their room, helped her change into her nightshirt and settled her into bed. He laid a tender kiss on her forehead and softly closed the bedroom door. The soft sigh that escaped Molly Hooper-Holmes as the door closed made him smile.


End file.
